


Dawn of the Chicken

by Hobbitfing



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:59:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/Hobbitfing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1892091/chapters/4077411">The Epic Saga of Chicken</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/pseuds/Blue_Sparkle">Blue_Sparkle</a>, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/InjaMorgan/pseuds/InjaMorgan">InjaMorgan</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia">kailthia</a>.</p><p>I've had this floating around in my head for a while and I finally got around to writing it--how Dwalin got Chicken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn of the Chicken

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Epic Saga of Chicken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892091) by [Blue_Sparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/pseuds/Blue_Sparkle), [Hobbitfing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/Hobbitfing), [InjaMorgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InjaMorgan/pseuds/InjaMorgan), [kailthia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailthia/pseuds/kailthia). 



“No, please, I don’t want…” Dwalin had been saying the same thing for what felt like hours, though sometimes the words came out in a different order. “It was one orc. You could’ve taken care of it yourself. Well, maybe not you, but…”

The old woman persisted, thrusting the flapping, scrabbling, frantic chicken at him. 

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he said, slowly, as though that would make any difference. She clearly couldn’t understand him, either. 

She spoke again, and her tone was insistent. 

Her language, Dwalin thought, sounded exactly like a cackling chicken. He was starting to feel giddy from the heat and the ridiculous situation, but he was determined to try one more time. “Really, I don’t…I don’t need a chicken.” He sorely wished his brother were here. Balin would be able to convince the woman, whether he spoke her language or not. Though he would be laughing into his beard the whole time. Dwalin sighed, imagining Balin’s reaction when he returned to Ered Luin with a chicken. 

He leaned past the old woman, hoping someone else from the caravan would step forward and offer to translate. 

None of them would meet his eyes, and they were starting to look uncomfortable. 

“Fine. Give me…I’ll take the damn chicken.” He awkwardly held out his hands, the way he would to hold a babe, expecting to be spattered in chicken-shit in a matter of seconds.   
The old woman made a joyous—and very chicken-like—sound and passed the bird over. 

It was both heavier and lighter than Dwalin had expected, a solid, warm weight beneath thick, downy feathers. It didn’t shit on him, but made a soft bucking sound and pulled up its feet until they were perched on Dwalin’s fingers instead of hanging down. It tilted its head, then gently pecked one of the tattoos on the dwarf’s hand.   
Around him, the Men started moving again, preparing the caravan to move. The old woman walked back to her own cart and gave the ox pulling it a sharp slap on the neck, ignoring Dwalin completely, as though she hadn’t spent the past half hour trying to persuade him to take her livestock. 

Dwalin didn’t relish the thought of taking a live chicken home with him. Maybe he could sell it—or give it—to someone else in the caravan. When he looked up from the feathery bundle he was holding, he realized the wagons were already moving away, stirring up an oppressive cloud of dust that stung his eyes and made him cough. He moved to the side, hoping to avoid the worst of the cloud. He automatically covered the chicken’s head with one hand, shifting the animal’s body to the crook of one arm. He felt the bird gently pecking and exploring the covering hand with its beak. 

He wasn’t going to run after a caravan of Men to get rid of a chicken. 

A perfectly edible chicken, it occurred to him. 

He glanced down at the bird, which cocked its head and looked back up at him with surprisingly beautiful yellow eyes. 

“I should cook you and eat you,” he grumbled, his face flushing because he was talking to a chicken, even if there was no one around. “Save me a lot of trouble, and it’s been weeks since I had fresh meat.”

The chicken clucked softly and shifted its feathers, settling itself in Dwalin’s grip. 

The dwarf sighed. “This is stupid. This is damn stupid. I’ve hunted plenty, killed lots of birds…” He trailed off. “Damn it…Chicken…I can’t do it.” He had to call it something, seeing as he was apparently keeping it, and he’d never been terribly original when it came to names. As a child in Erebor, all his toy soldiers had been named for their weapons—Axe, Sword, Mace. 

The day wasn’t getting any cooler, and he supposed that if he was hot, the chicken must be too. “Let’s find some shade, then,” he said, knowing the chicken understood him even less than the old woman had. But it was nice to have someone to talk to, he could admit to himself. 

Dwalin and Chicken spent the heat of the day sheltered behind a large rock, shuffling occasionally to keep themselves in the shade. Chicken seemed content to stay close to Dwalin, pecking and scratching in the dirt, clucking softly to itself—or possibly to Dwalin. 

He leaned against the relatively cool stone, arms crossed over his lap, eyes shut. He checked on the chicken every few minutes, though he kept reminding himself he hadn’t wanted the bird in the first place and he didn’t care if it wandered off or got eaten by something. When he realized he wasn’t going to get any sleep, he set about making a carrying sling for the chicken. If he was keeping the thing—and apparently he was—he needed a better way to carry it. He needed his arms free in case of attack.   
After a few hours he decided it was time to eat, so he got some waybread and dried meat out of his pack. He brushed crumbs off his beard and clothes, watching Chicken hurry to peck them up. “What do chickens eat?” he asked the bright-eyed bird. 

In response, Chicken hopped onto Dwalin’s leg and boldly stole a piece of bread before running a short distance away to eat its prize.   
Dwalin laughed softly. “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’ll starve. Here, have some water.” He poured some into his cupped hand and offered it to the bird.   
Chicken cocked its head and examined Dwalin’s hand from many angles before catching some of the water in its beak. It drank, then filled its beak again. This time, it tossed its head back and threw water over itself, spraying Dwalin too. 

“Hey! We need that water!” Dwalin tossed the rest of his handful at the bird. 

Chicken shook itself, fluttering more drops onto Dwalin and the dry ground. It scratched furiously until it had dug a shallow depression, then had a dust bath.   
“Well, at least you’re entertaining.”

As the sun set and the day finally began to cool, Dwalin gathered Chicken, carefully wrapped the bird in the sling he’d made, and continued his journey west. 

***

“Balin! I’m home!” Dwalin clumped his way into the small apartment he shared with his brother. “I see more spiders have moved in while I was gone.” He swiped a few cobwebs from a corner, shaking his head. Balin probably wouldn’t notice dust or cobwebs until they were actually on him. “I hope you’ve been eating while I was away.”  
“Reading,” his brother called back, sounding irritated at the interruption. 

Dwalin snorted. “There’s a surprise.” He went into Balin’s study, having to push aside several piles of books to get through the narrow hallway. 

Balin glanced up from his book. “Good evening, brother,” he said, his tone making it clear he was busy. 

“I’ll just get us some dinner, shall I?”

Balin gave an affirmative grunt. 

Chicken clucked. 

Balin looked up, startled. “Are you…feeling all right?”

“I’m a bit tired and definitely ready for some real food…”

“You made a strange noise.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“I didn’t.”

Chicken clucked again. 

“Ah ha! You just did it again!” Balin pointed one black-gloved finger triumphantly. 

“That…wasn’t me. It must’ve come from outside or something.” Dwalin felt his cheeks go hot. He knew he would probably have to tell Balin about Chicken eventually, but he was still reluctant to admit he’d carried a live chicken all the way home. 

“It sounded like a chicken, now that I think about it.” Balin stroked his beard thoughtfully, watching his brother. He was beginning to suspect what his brother was hiding.   
“A chicken? Why would—”

Balin coughed. 

Dwalin sighed and unslung the chicken carrier from his back. He extracted Chicken and held it out for his brother. 

“Do I want to know why you have a chicken swaddled like a babe?” Balin’s eyes were sparkling and the corners of his mouth were twitching, but he managed to keep a straight face. 

“I…there was…shut up.”

“Very eloquent. I suppose you’ll be keeping your chicken?”

Dwalin cuddled the fluffy bird against his chest. “It has a name you know.”

“Is it Chicken?”

“Yes. How did you…”

“We’ll need supplies then, won’t we?”


End file.
